Untouchable
by Telanu
Summary: Summary: Inspired by a prompt on the bondkink meme on Livejournal. Sometime between Quantum of Solace and Skyfall, Bond and M have been drugged with an aphrodisiac.


**Untouchable**

By Telanu

Rating: E for Explicit

Fandom: Craig!Bond

Pairing: M/Bond

Disclaimer: Not mine, no money.

Thanks to Luthien for the beta!

Summary: Inspired by a prompt on the bondkink meme on LJ. Sometime between Quantum of Solace and Skyfall, Bond and M have been drugged with an aphrodisiac.

* * *

She is going to come from a kiss. She knows that to a certainty. He mustn't find out, she won't give him that, but she's digging her fingers into his scalp and fucking his mouth, so he might have some idea.

Or perhaps he's too distracted. He's panting against her, his dress shirt damp with sweat, his arms clutching her as they struggle on her sofa. Bastard—idiot—

She feels the first flicker, deep inside. The first shudder.

—following her home, into her house, her bloody house, where she'd intended to take care of this little problem by herself, and he damn well should have gone home and done the same the minute he realised what was in their drinks—

Her shudder grows. His mouth is hot. He shaved for the evening, his lips are astonishingly soft, and they murmur and moan unceasingly against her own. She knows it's the drug that's making her squirm against him, seeking for relief as if it's the last thing she'll ever do, but it's pride that keeps her quiet. This is Bond, for God's sake, who smirks and smarms and thinks he can get away with murder, and now…

The drug was in their whisky. He tastes like Scotch. His erection grinds against the inside of her thigh, the wool of his trousers rough against her stockings; he stops kissing her just long enough to pant, "M. M."

And all she can think is, _Christ. _The world goes red behind her eyelids, and she freezes in place, her orgasm as violent as it is exquisite; she digs her fingernails into his shoulders, but doesn't make a sound. The habit of a lifetime. He mustn't know.

Her relief doesn't last long. She still aches and throbs between her legs, her skin still feels hot and feverish, and the world's spinning around her as if she's on a three-day drunk. Oh God, how long is this lot going to stay in her system?

She could kill Bond for this. She could curse him blind, call him names he'd never dream she knows, while she thrusts onto his fingers, and then his prick, coming until there's nothing left of her. And then, literally, she could kill him. One phone call. No one would miss him.

But when she sits up and looks down into his face, she sees his eyes glazed over with desperation, the helpless sag of his lips. "I shouldn't have come here," he pants.

"Oh, really?" she says, clenching her hands to keep them from clawing at his shirt buttons. God almighty. His mouth is only a few inches from her breasts and she's straddling his thigh. "When did you figure this out?"

His hips arch up against her, and he loosens one arm from around her waist to clutch at her knee. She knocks it away before she can drag it between her legs. "Know your place," she rasps.

His eyelids flutter shut, and his face flushes even more when he says, "I couldn't help it, damn you, I wasn't thinking."

His eyelashes are long, sandy blond, and she nearly faints when she watches him lick his lips. Please, please let him keep his eyes closed— "Oh yes you were, just not with your brain, and a huge goddamned surprise that is, I have to say."

He moves his leg, shifts it up, and she cannot help pressing down on his thigh for only a moment, the edges of her vision blurring. Oh God, that feels so bloody good. It's been over a year since Reginald died. She's seventy-one years old, but whatever was in that drink is making her randier than she's ever been in her life, and here she is with James Bond ready and willing on her sofa. It's meant to be the stuff of fantasy, isn't it?

She'll be damned before she goes on her back for him. She'll die first. "Why the hell are you here?" she asks without meaning to, her voice raw with betrayal.

"I could smell you," he hisses, opening his eyes to bright slits of blue. She can't look away. "Standing so close to you in the room—and then you left—oh God. I followed you. Fucking hell, it's as if you've got me on a leash, I can't explain it, don't you know?"

She doesn't. Is he telling the truth? They were dosed together—is there something in the drug that makes him respond to her, something chemical, or…?

"Bad dogs get left out in the cold," she says through clenched teeth.

He groans, shifts again, and then reaches up to cup and squeeze one of her breasts. She gasps and leans into his palm, shuddering when his thumb finds her nipple and presses it firmly through the fabric of her dress. "I'm not your dog," he says, and pinches. She whines and grabs his wrist, though it's a full second before she can bring herself to push him away. One more like that and she'll climax again, and there'll be no way to hide it from him like this—

Unless—unless—

With her last coherent thought, she shifts her hips forward and grinds down against him hard, coming instantly and strangling her cry. She needn't bother. He bucks up against her and his head lolls backwards, he shouts, and she feels the throb of him beneath her as he spunks into his trousers. She keeps moving on him, rocking her way helplessly through the aftershocks, trying to ride out every second of it before he's in command of himself enough to realise what's happening. She can't look away from his face, caught in extremis, beyond caution or subterfuge.

Then she breathes, "Well, Fido. I hope that's better."

He slumps back on the sofa, panting, his eyes closed. She manages to shift backwards, and the base of her spine tingles when the scent hits her, the musk. Her mouth waters, and to her dismay, she feels another throb of interest. But her second orgasm appears to have granted her more breathing room than her first, and this is her window of opportunity.

She slides off him and gets unsteadily to her feet, her knees knocking for an uncontrollable instant. She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand and looks at him. It is a tactical mistake—it gives him time to raise his head and look back, raising one shaking hand to undo his top two shirt buttons.

"You can see yourself out," she says.

"I'm not walking far like this," he says hoarsely, indicating an erection that hasn't seemed to diminish one jot.

She throbs again. In a just and fair world, she would have the right to invite him upstairs so they could fuck this right out of their systems, have a wonderful time, and a smoke and a cuddle afterwards. They don't live in that world. They never have.

"Walk to the front door and call a cab," she says.

He sits up, never taking his eyes off her. "Do you want me to beg," he says flatly.

"Don't be absurd."

He stands up and takes a step towards her, eyes still fogged with need. "Do you know what I'm thinking about?" He licks his lips, rendering her speechless long enough for him to say, "Eating you out. My mouth all over you. Sound like fun?" But his voice suggests anything other than fun; his lips are pulled back over his teeth in something like a snarl. "Is that what you want? I'll do what you want."

She knows what that's meant to do to her; knows it's meant to fill her head with visions of James Bond's tongue between her thighs, bringing her to ecstasy until she relents enough to let him screw her. "No, James," she says softly, digging her nails into her palms so she won't start touching herself right here in front of him. "That is not what you're thinking about."

"No?" he whispers.

"You are thinking about fucking the head of MI6. That's why you're here. That's your bloody so-called leash."

His breath catches. "M—"

"Your only saving grace," she continues unsteadily, "is that I'm positive it wasn't you who spiked the drinks. " He goggles, as if he can't believe the thought even occurred to her, and bloody hell the unmitigated _gall_ of him. "But everything's an opportunity to you, isn't it?"

He takes another step forward. "It's one of my qualities, yes," he says. His hands tremble, although his voice is low and rough. "But you know that. You think you know everything there is to know about me, don't you?"

"Don't," she says, "try to be hanged for a sheep instead of a lamb." He's beautiful. He's dangerous. And she can smell him, yes, she can. The way he'd wrapped his arms around her, moaned against her mouth—

"I will never trust you again," she manages.

His eyes widen. "M?"

"You ought to get out of my house. And you ought to go now." She closes her eyes, because her nipples are hard as rocks, she's sweating bullets, and she can't look at him for another second. Then she turns and heads for the stairs, climbing them, trying not to think about how she hadn't said _I want you to go_ or _I order you to go_ or even just _Go._

So what, she thinks, trying to clear her head. So what? He knows he's got to leave right now if he wants to have any prayer of ever setting foot in Six again. And she's got to make it to her bedroom so she can frig herself unconscious and not move until morning when, ideally, Bill Tanner will call and tell her they've apprehended the bastards responsible for all this. What she wants to know is _why_. She supposes it's preferable to being poisoned. But only just.

She gains the privacy of her bedroom and leaves the light off. Deeds done in darkness are easier to forget. She doesn't take off her dress, but she's just kicked off her shoes and slid her knickers down when she realises she hasn't heard the front door open or close. Well—he could have gone out the back. Or perhaps she didn't hear. He's trained to be as quiet as a snowfall when he needs to be.

The fever heat makes it nearly impossible to concentrate on anything else, but she listens, listens, and doesn't hear anything.

He wouldn't. He would not dare. Not even he.

A noise in the hallway. So soft that, had she been as distracted as she'd planned, she never would have heard it.

Her fingertips go numb, and for a second she stands at the corner of too many feelings: lust, terror, rage. Then, above them all, surfaces the determination that she will not be stalked like prey through her own home, no matter what he wants or how she needs. She keeps a gun on her nightstand for a reason.

But some part of her, a part made of weakness, remains soft to him: his eyes, his charm, his ruthless hunger, his capability. The way he has always come back. The ways in which he has needed her long before tonight. And with that in mind, she slides the gun over the surface of the nightstand before she lifts in her hand, letting him hear it.

She hears the catch of his breath behind her. And that's when she realises he is already _in the room._

Before she can react—before she can turn around and blow his brains out and mourn him later—she hears another sound. A muffled thump. An exhalation.

It is the sound of a man falling to his knees.

M closes her eyes in spite of the darkness. She takes in a deep breath. If he speaks, she will kill him. If he moves, she will kill him. For one whole minute, he does neither. Then two minutes.

Without a word, she sets the gun back down on the nightstand and turns around. She can see only the silhouette and shadow of him. His breathing, though, remains audible: rough and uneven. As for her, the sexual fever has at least abated somewhat, drowned momentarily by adrenaline. Fight or flight. Or fuck, she supposes.

Now he kneels before her, waiting, and the fever returns. This—now, this is the stuff of her fantasies about James Bond. There is no use denying it. Does he know that? Is he just playacting, trying to cozen her out of her anger?

She doesn't know. Her head spins. She cannot think. This is a problem: she's got him here, but she's not sure what to do with him. A wolf is in her bedroom. He is offering her his throat, but any moment, he could turn on her. She is M. She must work out how best to use him.

She could send him home, of course. He'll go this time, if bidden. But the damage has been done—no matter what happens now, they'll still be two people who writhed on a couch together and have to face each other at work in the morning. If she orders him to go, then she'll be the one who's really running. It won't mend the crack; it will shatter everything. She's got to play this out.

"What have you got to say for yourself?" she asks.

She hears the sharp click of a swallow. "Nothing," he whispers.

Her back is damp with sweat again. Her thighs are uncomfortably sticky. "That's a first."

Silence.

"It's the dark, isn't it?" she says. "You can only go on your knees because the lights are off."

"Turn them on. I'll still be here."

Heat glows inside her, lights her up. She feels like flame. "What courage." Silence. "But I'll leave them off. I can't bear to look at you." He inhales. Not quite a gasp.

"The truth, James," she says. "Maybe you can be brave enough to say that in the dark, too. Give me the truth."

"All right."

"Tell me why you followed me home."

For a second, his breathing becomes deeper and harsher. Every sound rings more sharply in darkness. He replies, "I told you the truth the first time." A soft sound. He is licking his lips. "I shouldn't have done it."

"So you regret it."

"I do."

"But you didn't leave when I said to." She hears, with dismay, the shake of her own voice. "Tell me why not."

After another pained moment, he chokes, "M—"

"Tell me!"

"You said you don't trust me." He sounds like a man drowning. "You said you never will again. I can't go."

Her breath catches. She had not expected that. She'd expected more nonsense about desire, sex, the way he can bloody smell her or something, not…

"You asked for the truth," he rasps.

"You probably believe it, too," she says, pressing her palm to her forehead and feeling the heat. "That sneaking about in my house was a way to prove yourself trustworthy."

"Letting you shoot me would have been. I didn't have to let you get that gun. I could have stopped you—"

She has already taken one step forward, her hand raised, before she masters herself. Then she drops her hands to her sides, curling them into fists, as she manages, "If you ever speak, or even hint, about physically overpowering me again, no one will find your body. Do you understand?"

A pause. Then, after a moment, she hears genuine horror in his voice as he whispers, "I wouldn't. Christ. What do you think of me?"

"I'm not certain now," she says, driving home the knife. "It's not what I thought only this afternoon."

Silence again. She can't tell if it's because he is finally learning self-preservation or simply because he can't speak.

She could keep doing this. She could keep hurting, and hurting, and hurting him. It would probably accomplish her purpose, at least enough to send him crawling home with his tail between his legs, enough for her to be able to look him in the eye after dawn breaks. They would never speak of this again. It would work.

If she did not love him, it would work.

She spares one precious instant for self-loathing before she lets it go and reaches for acceptance. It's second nature by now. Things are as they are. She can kill him—she must always be able to do that—but she can't torture him.

She can, however, rebuke him. School him. Improve him, perhaps. The only question is, how to do it? It's getting even more difficult to think, now that the need to do so increases by the second. How close to the edge are they both?

"What's happening to you, James?" she whispers. "Right now."

He pants, and says, "My body?"

"Yes."

"I feel like I'm going to burn to ash and I'm hard as a rock. I'm fucking leaking on my thigh. Will that do?" Before she can respond, he adds, speaking so quickly she can scarcely understand him, "I'm not talking about overpowering anybody, M, I'm here at your bloody feet, do you want me to lick your shoes?"

"If I did, you'd be licking them already," she snaps. "And anything else I ordered you to lick!"

And once those words are out of her mouth, she has no choice but to sit on the edge of the bed before she falls down. Idiot, fool, she's got nobody to blame but herself for the relentless image of Bond's tongue slipping and gliding over any part of her body she likes.

"So order me, then," he gasps. "Christ, you're killing us both. Let me touch you."

She puts her hand on her forehead again. "That's what you want, is it?"

"Yes," and his voice now is nearly a cry, high and thin. He shuffles forward on his knees.

"_Stop,_ James!"

"M," he groans and now, finally, she sees the shape of his head bow down.

Enough, she thinks, getting warmer and warmer beneath her clothes. That is enough.

"Undress," she tells him. "Every stitch off."

A pause, and then she hears the rustle of fabric. He gives a rough, mirthless chuckle and says, "I can't help but notice you're not—"

Her dress has a side zip. She reaches over and slides it down slowly, letting him hear. His breath catches and stutters.

"Keep going," she tells him. He growls, and now she can hear his buttons popping open as he tears at his clothing. She's not sure what he thinks will happen now, but she's to the point where her clothes are suffocating her. Every brush of fabric on her skin is torment. Nudity will be as much a relief as a risk.

He's faster than she is, of course. By the time her dress and bra are off, and she's rolling her stockings down her thighs, he's finished. Of course, she is also trying not to rush, but that becomes increasingly difficult as his breathing speeds up.

She tosses the second stocking to the floor and leans back, sighing, taking a moment just to feel the cool air of her bedroom on her naked skin. That's better. How long has it been, really, since she's just let herself be nude, for some reason other than getting in and out of the bath? Even if he weren't here, it would feel bizarrely decadent.

But he is here. He can't see her. She bites her lip, prays that she knows him well enough, and parts her thighs, listening to the soft, wet sound they make.

He exhales, and she watches his head bend down again.

"Well?" she asks.

"Jesus Christ." It sounds like a sob.

"Tell me," she orders breathlessly.

"I can smell you. God."

"Where are your hands, James?"

"On my thighs. Fisted."

She swallows. It is mercifully quiet. Then she says, "Fisted?"

"So I don't grab my cock, why else, M—"

"Come here," she says.

For a moment, he doesn't move, and she waits with her breath held to see how he will interpret the order. If he will know what to do.

He doesn't stand up. Instead he stays on his knees and crawls to her, his breathing tortured. She can feel his heat as he approaches, and can smell the unlovely odors of his sweat, of the semen that has dried on his thigh.

"Very good," she breathes, and hopes it isn't a mistake. He crawls to the edge of the bed until he kneels between her thighs, and then rises up on his knees, putting his face level with her breasts, if he could see them. All she has to do is lean forward, whisper something, tug on his ear, and she could have that mouth on her tits, and his hands anywhere she likes.

"You may touch yourself, James," she says, "but you may not touch me."

"What," he gasps.

"Keep your hands on your thighs. Or…" She can't help it. She leans forward and her eyes close when her lips brush against his damp forehead. "Or put them…round your prick. It—" She kisses his temple, tasting the salt, the surprisingly soft stretch of skin over his bones. "It makes no difference to me."

"You're joking. You're—" She nuzzles through his hair, breathing him in. "You're joking? M?"

Knowing she has only a few moments of coherent thought left, M uses them to say, "Do you deserve my trust?" She spreads her legs wider, as much to provide a little relief as anything else, a small release of pressure. Then, before he can answer, she presses one kiss, then two, to the side of his mouth.

"So close," he chokes.

God. He's bound to be. So is she. "As I said," she murmurs against his cheek, knowing that his skin is the most wonderful thing she has ever tasted, "feel free to take care of yourself." She feels the sting of regret that they must remain in the dark, that she won't see him do it, but even just listening to it will be…

"No. I mean, so close to you. I could do anything, and—" He snarls. "You don't want my hands? Let me use my mouth."

M brushes her lips across his so lightly and quickly that she's not sure he felt it. It's enough to tell her that the rest of this is inevitable, that she must go back for more, and it's pure empty air when she says, "Who would want this filthy thing?"

Then she kisses him. It's not like last time. He cannot wrap his arms around her or pin her down. He must wait, quivering and taut. The first kiss seems to stun him. He just lets it happen and hardly seems to breathe.

She's not doing a very good job of that herself. He has robbed her of air. Taken her breath away. This man is a thief, a collector of stolen sighs. She is not his first victim, nor will she be his last. And although she wants nothing more than to melt all over him, this thought provokes her enough to bite his bottom lip.

Bond hisses and comes alive. This close to him, she can feel his whole body tense and gather, ready to leap, but he doesn't; he does, however, open his mouth, lean in, and kiss her back.

Last time she was silent, tried to hide everything while he made noises that finished her. This time she is the one who sighs while she cards her fingers through his hair, gasps as she scratches the back of his head. She can't help it. He's goddamn naked and between her legs. His breath grows increasingly ragged as they kiss, but he holds perfectly still, doesn't move to touch himself, while she grows ever more undone. Oh, God. She's going to lose. She's going to beg him to—

Then he moves. His hands fly out, but not to touch her, just to brace himself on the mattress as he leans in and kisses her harder, nearly pushing her flat on her back. She wraps her arms around his neck to keep her balance, and when he pulls away for breath, she makes a pitiful, whimpering sound.

He buries his face in the crook of her throat, fighting for air. Knowing she should push him away, she grabs his head and holds him there instead, panting while the room spins around her. They are flush together, flesh to flesh, and given their respective positions, he'd just have to move a few inches to be buried inside her.

"M," he moans, brushing his open mouth against her throat, her shoulder. His hands clench the bedsheets to either side of her. She scrapes her fingernails over his bare shoulders. She'd like to say it's a gesture of control, but she's mostly too busy rubbing her nose in his hair again, short and coarse and spiky with sweat. "God, Christ, what do you need me to prove?"

The question brings her back to herself a little, at least enough for her to say, "Trust."

"You can trust me." He bites the side of her neck. She damned near comes from that alone, but chokes down the cry. "I don't want to—" He stops.

She ought to say, _It doesn't matter what you want._ A few minutes ago, she could have. Now she can only say, "To what?"

He shudders. Then he says through his teeth, "It's not exactly how I imagined things, is it?"

Ah. Well. That's one hypothesis confirmed. "So," she says, resting her cheek against his head while she tries to recover, "you obviously have something you'd like to share." He laughs roughly, and she cups her hand around the back of his neck, tugging him away. He leans in, trying to kiss her mouth again. She presses her fingertips to his lips; he kisses those instead, and then licks them with clever darts of tongue.

"Should I just guess?" she whispers, unable not to follow this path he has just set before her.

"You'll be wrong," he says, shuddering when she slides her wet fingertips across his cheek and down his throat.

"You mustn't sound so sure."

"I'll give you three guesses."

Oh, she'll nip that in the bud right away. "You are not setting any rules, James. That is not your prerogative."

"You've only given me one rule and it's a shite one," he hisses.

"Ah. That's it, isn't it?" she asks, instead of rising to the bait. "That's what you imagine. Power games. In the office, no doubt."

"Is that your guess?"

She whispers, "Ssh," and kisses him lightly and swiftly, a stealthy blow that leaves him speechless for a moment. "How lurid does it get? Does it run to bending me over my desk? Or is it the other way round?"

"You tell me," he says. "This isn't my idea." His laugh is low and downright nasty. "Sounds like one you've entertained before, though."

She feels a cold prickle up and down her back. "You flatter yourself."

"Did I ever think I had a hope of shagging you in your office, M? No. No, I did not." He breathes harshly in her ear, "Guess again."

He followed her home. Trailed her like a bloodhound. "At a function," she whispers. "The one we were just at. You take me aside, somewhere just out of sight, and pull up my skirt. Will that do?"

"No. No, that won't do." He pulls away, but only far enough that the tips of their noses still touch. Their lips nearly brush when he says, "Although it would have saved some time. Are you going to keep at this? I thought you wanted me to tell you the truth."

He's an idiot if he thinks she wants anything more, at this moment, than to fuck him through the mattress. "Oh God, if you must," she says.

"This is it," he says, his breath hot against her mouth.

She waits for more. None appears to be forthcoming. "What is?"

"You, naked on a bed," he says. "That usually does it for me. Except—" His voice drops into a low, dangerous murmur. "I don't stay on my knees like a trained pet waiting for scraps."

For an instant, they stand balanced together on the edge of a knife. They are this close to being cut, to bleeding out.

"Do you surprise me in my bedroom?" she asks neutrally. "With a gun in my hand?"

He gasps, pulls back, and the knife edge vanishes as they land back on solid ground. She feels herself shaking.

"No," he croaks. "God. No. I told you. M."

He has been upright on his knees this whole time, but now he sinks back down onto his haunches, leaning forward to press his forehead into her belly, which is no doubt softer and looser than he's used to. He does not appear to notice. He breathes downward, his breath tickling between her legs, warm with promise.

She shudders and lets him go, propping herself on her hands for balance instead. "Don't."

"Please. Please." He tilts his head and presses a hot, open-mouthed kiss to her stomach. "I can smell you. Let me." His tongue slips into her navel. He sounds half-delirious when he adds, "There, you see, I said I'd beg, didn't I? Please. Trust me." He scrapes his teeth over her. "Trust me again."

She swallows. "James, may I trust you to do as I ask?"

There is a pause, during which he obviously realises this is a trap. He says, with agony in his voice, "Yes."

"You may not touch me."

"_M_—"

"Stay where you are," she whimpers, putting her right hand on his shoulder and sending her left down between their bodies, brushing it against his cheek. Then her fingers are between her legs, and she gasps at finally, finally being touched.

He moans, pushing his mouth helplessly against her belly again, panting as he listens to the slick, wet noises. M can't spare much of a thought for him, though, as her head tilts back and she fights not to come. She knows she ought to, knows she must bring an end to this, but nothing has ever felt as good as Bond's mouth and naked body pressed to hers, and she cannot bear for it to be over. She whimpers again when she slides her fingers over her labia, avoiding anything more sensitive, thinking if he were the one doing this—oh, his hands must have a doctorate in how to make a woman come, she'd make him touch her here, and here, like this—

Then he moves his mouth from her stomach to her left wrist, brushing his lips downward over the back of her hand, millimetres from her soaked cunt. She gasps. His own hands stay on the bed while he mouths at her knuckles, sucking on them, and he mumbles, "Inside, fuck, go inside."

She moans and obliges him, slipping one finger in, then two. He exhales so deeply against her hand that it sounds like a groan. God, she can't remember the last time she did this, usually doesn't bother—two fingers—there—oh, yes, there, rightbloody_there_—

And she's over the edge. M presses as far into herself as she can go and grinds against her palm, crying out while she convulses, listening to him chant _oh God oh God oh God_ against her hand. As before, she can't help chasing it, moving her hand over and over while she keeps it going, her legs spread obscenely wide. She goes until, finally, pleasure turns to pain.

Then, that…is the lot. She sinks backwards on her elbow, sobbing for breath, knowing that the drug must have run its course because she can't possibly have another orgasm left in her after that.

"James?" she whispers.

No response. She hears only his breath, each exhalation ragged and anguished, while his cheek rests on her thigh. He's shaking violently. He cannot possibly have found relief.

Then he says hoarsely, "In my fantasy, I come to your flat, or you go to mine, and nobody knows. And I fuck and fuck and fuck you. We do any bloody thing we want, nothing is off limits, nobody would believe the things we do together, but nobody knows—"

M swallows, slides her fingers out of herself, and rubs them over his lips. He pants, his lips pursing to suck at her fingertips. Then she presses her whole palm, sticky and wet, against his mouth.

His hips buck, he cries out, and then he begins to shudder in release against her. In the final moment, he grabs her hand and kisses her palm open-mouthed, laving it with his tongue.

That is not, strictly speaking, allowed. She decides to let it go, and closes her eyes against the feeling of his lips and tongue and breath on her skin. He slumps down when he is finished, still clutching at her hand, still moaning. His head falls back down to her thigh.

They sit like that for a moment. Aching with satisfaction, she pulls her hand free from his and slides her sticky fingers through his hair. Any minute now, he will say something clever or cruel, and this episode will officially be finished.

He doesn't speak, though. He remains on his knees, his head in her lap, breathing like an exhausted racehorse. He seems, in fact, prepared to stay in this position all night.

She would like to let him. Better: she would like to invite him into her comfortable bed. This is impossible. She and Bond are not lovers, though she loves him more than she can afford to, and she suspects he loves her as much as he can. This night, whatever truths it has revealed, is still an accident of chemistry and circumstance.

So instead of inviting him anywhere, M moves her leg, forcing him to raise his head. She rises unsteadily to her feet, wincing at the cracking sound her knees make, though he'd have to be one hypocritical bastard to look down his nose at that. Her dressing gown is draped haphazardly over the end of the bed—she'd been running late to the 'do tonight, bloody hilarious in hindsight—so she gropes around for it, picks it up, slides it on, and belts it.

He says nothing the whole time. She steps away from the bed towards the door to her ensuite. Her back to him again, she says, "I'm going to have a shower. When I come back out, you need to be gone."

"Yes. Of course." She hears him sigh, and then a shuffling sound that means he is probably rising to his feet. "I assume that in the morning, somebody is going to update me on something."

He could just have written her job description. M bites back a bitter laugh and says, "Probably."

"Are we all right?"

She presses her fingertips to her mouth. Then she says, "I haven't shot you, have I?"

"Then hold still. Just for a moment."

Whatever he's about to do is probably a bad idea, but curiosity is always the besetting sin of anybody who rises to be head of MI6, so M holds still and waits. She hears his tread behind her, and again feels that warning prickle from the first time she'd realised he was in her bedroom. But he just puts his hands on her shoulders, and then presses a kiss to the crown of her head.

She doesn't move a muscle, half dreading some sentimental revelation. But he just mutters "Good night" into her hair, kisses her again, and steps back.

Christ. That might have been worse than sentiment. She can bear anything but tenderness right now, and so she makes a vague noise before fleeing into her bathroom, not turning on the light until the door is safely shut behind her.

Then she barely stifles a gasp at her own reflection. Well, thank all the powers that the lights were off for the best part of the festivities. Her makeup is smeared and smudged, her eyes are tired and small, her hair's sticking out every which way, and somehow all of this combines to make her look a thousand years old. Meanwhile, no doubt that bastard out there looks like a slightly rumpled god.

She runs a shower and forbids herself to think the whole time she's in there. She aches in unusual places. A few of them require washing more than once.

When she gets back to the bedroom, the lights are on and Bond is gone. Her clothes remain scattered about, and she can see the indentation in the counterpane where she was sitting on the edge of the bed. Against her will, she blushes to see a faint stain. Then her eyes drop to the carpet, bracing for the inevitable sight of the wet spot, but he has apparently cleaned up after himself. The picture he must have made while doing so makes her splutter with laughter she's not prepared for. So unprepared is she, in fact, that she needs to sit down again and put her face in her hands before the laughter turns into something else.

Right. Yes. Done. That's done.

Then she checks the communications console hidden beneath the surface of her nightstand. Tanner knows not to call her tonight—and has probably drunk quite a lot of Scotch so he won't have to think about why—but no doubt he's sent her updates and messages. Sure enough, there are two different emails from him. The most recent reads simply "Bond: AWOL" in the subject line. She sighs and deletes it unread.

The next one is labelled "Update on drug source." That one, she reads. The farther she reads, the more deeply she frowns, and the farther she drifts from whatever small post-coital lassitude she was enjoying.

Lab analysis has traced the drug to a facility in Chongqing. The facility is run by a man named Lin Chun-Yao. The name wouldn't ring any bells if it weren't also attached to a photo of a man she remembers quite clearly. Hong Kong, 1996. She'd had him arrested and deported to the mainland not long before the handover, along with tying up quite a lot of other loose ends. He seems to have recovered.

It could be a coincidence, of course, that she was doped with a drug sourced from a former foe. And pigs could fly. But why now? And why such a ludicrous attack—not designed to kill her, or even hurt her, but merely discomfit and embarrass her? She snorts. _Merely_ that. To violate her, humiliate her, that would be a better way of framing it, even though—ultimately—it failed. And why Bond too, for God's sake? He hadn't even been on her radar in the nineties.

She is much, much older than he is, after all.

M sighs and closes the console. She is developing a headache, and she doubts it's a side effect of the aphrodisiac. She will worry about this in the morning. She will need all the sleep, all the respite she can get. It is always in short supply.

But sleep is a long time arriving. When it does, it brings strange dreams. Some of them are fever-hot and beautiful and glorious; but when she wakes in the morning, she feels clammy and cold. She recognises the feeling, very clearly, as dread. None of it is to do with facing Tanner, or even Bond, for that matter. She doesn't know what it is.

But she knows one thing. A storm is coming.

She just wishes she knew why.

**FIN.**

Feedback is always greatly appreciated!


End file.
